


And Protect ...

by kosmickway (KMDWriterGrl)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMDWriterGrl/pseuds/kosmickway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In various ways, Catherine and Brass both need to be taken care of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Protect ...

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Season 4's “After The Show” and Season 6's “Way To Go.”

CATHERINE:

It hadn’t really sunk in. 

They’d been friends for so long, colleagues who’d been through hell and back, it simply hadn’t occurred to her that she could have those types of feelings for Jim Brass. 

With Warrick, it was easy. She could fall into Warrick, could drown in those gorgeous eyes, could feel herself smoldering for hours afterward from a simple touch. She was never conflicted about Warrick. She’d always known she’d had feelings for him, right from the start. 

But Jim ... different. Jim was steady. Jim was safe. Jim was gruff, tough, and terribly protective of his team. Jim had a sense of humor that he only occasionally showed to the rest of the world. Jim was solid and stalwart and a hell of a good cop. 

She didn’t– couldn’t– fall into Jim. 

At least she hadn’t thought so.

***

Hearing the news from Grissom of the shooting and the surgery, then watching with him through that horrid five minute span when he’d flat-lined, then returned, then flat-lined and returned ... Jesus, it had nearly ripped her apart. She’d stood there with Grissom and Ellie, watching through the glass as nurses worked on him, as the monitors flashed and beeped panic and then settled back into a normal cadence and she’d had to clench her fists hard to stop the trembling in her hands. 

The wait for him to awaken was interminable. She’d paced, recalling other hospital visits– Greg, after the lab explosion, Nicky, after the box. The whole night crew was there and they paced in shifts--Sara and Greg in the parking lot and up and down the stairs, Grissom back and forth with his phone in his hands. Even Robbins did his share, his crutch tapping on the floor. 

Warrick paced with her, close but never touching. She couldn’t handle it now, couldn’t handle the warmth of his skin when she knew she’d fantasize about it later and feel guilty– he was a married man, now, and entirely untouchable. 

Finally, the okay came for Grissom to see him. They all clustered anxiously outside the window into his room, watching Grissom speak to a groggy Brass, watching him flash a peace sign at them with a small smile on his lips. And finally, finally, a release to the tension. She turned into Robbins’ arms, then into Greg’s, trying to hide tears, then not even bothering when she saw how many of them were also sporting wet cheeks and watery smiles. 

She opted to stay, to wait at the hospital with Grissom so that Jim wouldn’t have to be alone. After he’d fallen back into sleep, she found herself pacing again, not out of anxiety this time, but out of a growing sense of anger. 

He’d put himself in the line of fire. AGAIN. Was it part of his job? Sure, just as much as it was part of hers. (Although if she’d said that to Jim he’d have argued vociferously that it was NOT a part of her job to pit herself against suspects). It had always been Jim who took the brunt of the foot chases and wild swinging punches from suspects, who had always been willing to put his life on the line unreservedly to save others, whether it was civilians or members of his own team. What right did she have to be angry at him for simply doing his job? And for that matter, when had her concern for Jim blossomed into such fierce protectiveness?

It might have been the day he’d let his own mask slip, the day two years ago when he had first shown his own fierce protectiveness of her ...

***

Howard Delhomme lunged over the table at Catherine. The officer wasn’t fast enough to grab him and Delhomme’s hands closed over her throat. “Bitch! You bitch!”

Catherine jerked backward, toppling her chair, and fell hard, her head thudding on the floor. She tried to roll away but Delhomme was over the table and on top of her, fingers sinking in deep to close around her windpipe. Though Delhomme was slight, anger leant him strength and his weight was too much to buck off. She twisted, kicked. 

An electric hum buzzed the air and Delhomme slumped. The door slammed open, running feet entered. Someone was helping her get her feet under her, rushing her out of the room. 

Suddenly she was in the room next door, leaning against the table. Someone was speaking and it took her a minute to figure out that it was Brass. 

“. . . okay? Catherine?” 

His hands were on her shoulders, grasping tight enough to hurt. 

“Can you breathe?” He sounded anxious, an odd tone for the normally unflappable captain. 

“Yeah,” she managed, her voice raspy. “I’m okay.”

“You hit your head.”

“It’s pretty hard. I’m fine.”

The door opened from the hallway and David ran in. Through the one-way glass, Catherine saw Robbins enter the opposite interrogation room to check out Delhomme. “What happened?”

“Perp took a dive at her, choked her,” Brass said, hands still on her shoulders. “She tried to fight him off, hit her head.” 

“Let’s take a look.” David pulled on gloves, took a blood pressure cuff out of his kit. 

“Guys, I’m fine,” Catherine repeated, though now that she was really letting herself feel it, she actually wasn’t feeling fine at all. 

“Let David be the judge of that,” Brass said in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

She sank into the chair he led her to, and then had to bend her head over her knees, fighting dizziness and swallowing hard against the urge to retch.

“Oh, geez, Cath.” Brass was on his knees next to her in an instant. “David–“

“Are you nauseated, Catherine?” David was kneeling in front of her, too, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around her arm. 

“Yeah.”

“Need a trash can?”

“Not yet.” She kept her eyes shut as she listened to the pump and hiss of the cuff, taking some small comfort in David’s capable touch on her arm. She could sense Brass’s presence on her other side, his hand resting lightly on her knee, a fact she was sure he was unaware of.

“Pressure’s a little high, but that’s to be expected with her adrenaline up. Can you tip your head back for me, Catherine?”

Slowly, under David’s direction, she tipped her head back until it was cradled in his hands so he could palpate her skull for injuries. “No broken skin. No contusions or edema. I think a CAT scan is probably in order, though. Keep your head back. I’m going to check your throat.”

As he was finishing up, Robbins walked in, accompanied by Grissom. 

“I can’t leave you alone for a second,” Grissom said exasperatedly. “Does she need to be at Desert Palm, guys?”

“I want her to get a CAT scan,” David replied. Catherine rolled her eyes. 

“You heard the man. Let’s go.” Grissom helped her stand up. “After that we’ll talk about you baiting a murder suspect.”

Catherine shot a pleading look at Brass as they walked by. 

“Don’t look at me. I’ve got a lecture of my own to add to it.” He fell into step beside Catherine.

*  
Gil had given her the promised lecture about proper procedure with suspects. She’d nodded in all the right places and assured him it wouldn’t happen again, not because she felt she was wrong in the way she’d handled Delhomme but simply because she wanted Gil to stop talking.

Back in the exam room, waiting for a doctor to come in to read the scan, she lay her aching head on the paper-covered exam bed and shut her eyes, dreading the moment Brass would walk in the door. The last thing she wanted was another lecture. 

He stepped inside after a soft, proprietary knock on the door. “Cath? You okay?”

“Yeah.” She sat up– with effort, since her whole body was starting to ache– and opened her eyes, bracing herself for the promised reprimand. 

“Your head intact?”

“Don’t know. The doctor should be in soon.”

“Well–“ Brass shut the door behind him and sidled over to the exam table. “I’ll just wait in here with you if that’s okay.”

“If you’re looking to give me that lecture, now’s as good a time as any. Just don’t wait till my headache gets any worse, okay?” 

“Who, uh–“ Brass leaned against the table, close to her but not too close. “Who gave you the idea I’d be lecturing you?”

“You did. On the way over here.”

“Well, I changed my mind. For now. I’d rather save it for a time when you’ll actually be paying attention. I know you weren’t hearing a word Gil was saying.”

Catherine rolled her neck and sighed heavily. “He’s overreacting.”

“You wouldn’t find it a cause for concern if a member of your team was using her sexuality as leverage on a suspect?”

“I wasn’t–“ Catherine blew out a breath. “Okay. I won’t deny it. You’re right. I was. Sara’s accused me of it before and she was right about it then, too. But I don’t see it the way you guys are seeing it.” She dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her temples, trying to come up with the best way to word what she wanted to say. Finally she looked up at Brass. “You think I’m sexy?”

If the question rocked him, he didn’t show it. He just grinned and replied, “Well, that should go without saying.”

“Yeah, well ... You’re discreet about it. It’s Nick and Greg I’ve caught checking out my ass, not you.” She smiled a little then sobered. “You know as well as I do, Jim, that sexuality and beauty are commodities in this city. Most places it’s either feast or famine based on whether you’re ‘in your looks’ on that particular night. Julie Waters knew that. All the girls that show up here trying to make it big know that. And if they’re really smart they know how to work it. 

“I just figure ... I’ve got it. And if I can use it to get at a guy like Delhomme, a guy who preys on women, I’m doing a decent thing. It wouldn’t be my first choice of ways to get the job done but in this case, there wasn’t another option. We needed answers and he wasn’t going to give them to anyone but me. So did I play him? Yeah. But he gave us what we needed. I’m not sorry for that.”

Brass studied her then laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’m not sorry you got us what we needed either. Truly. Howard Delhomme needs to spend the rest of his natural life being afraid to reach for the soap. I’m not crazy about the way you went about it, not because I’m some puritan, but because it got you hurt and, if things had gone differently, it could have got you killed. Just ... give me a head’s up or something next time you want to go head to head with a guy like that, okay? We’ll come up with a code word.”

Catherine laughed then winced when her own laughter made her head ache. Brass pushed at her gently until she leaned back on the exam bed. 

“Let’s get this guy to give you a clean bill of health. I’ll buy you lunch, take you home.”

“And leave a mountain of paperwork for when I get back in tomorrow? Hell, no.”

“If it means getting you home and resting, I’ll do your paperwork myself.” His hand rose to her cheek and she shut her eyes, leaning into his palm. “Let someone take care of you for a change.”

“I’m not that kind of girl, Jim.”

He leaned down and gave her a soft kiss on the forehead. “Don’t you think you ought to be?”

***   
JIM:

He’d been awake just long enough to drink some water, to smooth his hair, and to say a few words to Grissom about what he needed from his house, before Catherine fairly flew into his hospital room, her face flushed from what had obviously been a mad dash up the stairs from the parking lot. 

“Gil, can I have a minute?”

Grissom nodded and left, his hand briefly touching Catherine’s on the way out. 

She’s gorgeous. God, if there’s any face he’d wanted to wake up to it had been hers. He stared at her anxious face, her overly bright eyes, and was very conscious of being clad only in a flimsy hospital gown. 

“Cath–“

“Don’t you EVER do that again!” Catherine’s look changed from anxiety to fury so quickly that it took him by surprise. He began to wish Gil were still in the room. “You dumb jerk, how could you go into that room with him? There are so many other people– it didn’t have to be you!”

Not entirely sure what to say, he finally said the first comment that popped into his head which was, “Well, better me than Warrick, right?”

Catherine stared at him as if he was completely out of his mind. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Yeah, I’m not entirely sure what to say to that either. Let’s just skip that for now and get to the part where I tell you that I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Oh yeah! A lot of good sorry does now that you’ve had to have a bullet pulled out of a major artery!”

It wasn’t until she moved a little and there was a bounce of light off of her cheek that he realized she was crying. 

At a loss, he finally pointed at a chair and said, “Cath, why don’t you come on over here.”

He waited for her to move and as soon as she had, he reached up and laid a hand on her cheek. Her skin was hot to the touch. 

“How long has it been since you slept?”

“God only knows.” She laid her hand over his. “I wasn’t going to until you woke up.”

“I’m awake now. Why don’t you go home and get some rest.”

“I’ll just be right back here in the morning. I’ll park myself out in the waiting room.”

He stroked her cheekbone with his thumb, the silk of her skin a sweet reassurance. “Is it going to bother you if I ask a favor?”

“Not at all. Anything.”

“Will you lean in a little closer?”

She looked perplexed but did so, leaning in just close enough for him to put a hand behind her head, pull her in, and kiss her forehead. “You don’t know how nice it is to see your face.”

It was her turn to surprise him. She gently laid her mouth against his, a chaste kiss, but a kiss nonetheless and murmured, “Ditto.”

She sank back into the chair and shut her eyes, her thumb stroking gently over the back of his hand. He fell asleep listening to her breathing. 

JIM: 

He let her help him out of the car. 

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t climb out perfectly well on his own, even with his arm in a sling. But she was feeling overprotective, he could see it on her face, so he let her, gamely allowing her to grab his go-bag and put a hand on his arm as they moved up the walk toward his house. 

Catherine had spent more time in the hospital than at home or in the lab for the last week. He gently prodded her to go be with Lindsay, to jump back in to the cases the rest of the crew was working, but she wouldn’t have it. The lab could get along without her for a few days.

He isn’t sure how to feel about this new protectiveness of hers. He’s used to his own protective instincts about her, used to feeling like he wants to take care of her, even when he can’t always put that into practice. But in reverse, knowing that SHE wants to take care of HIM– it’s a little odd. It isn’t that he’s a chauvinist– hey, what man wouldn’t want a woman catering to his every whim?– but it’s uncomfortable for him to give in, to admit that he needs help. It’s not a feeling of emasculation, exactly, more of a sheepishness that he’d managed to hurt himself enough to need the care in the first place. 

And there’s guilt, too, especially when he sees just how tired she looks. It doesn’t show on her face– she’s too adept at using make-up and concealer for shadows or pallor to show through– but it’s in her eyes. As he’s told her at least fifty times by now, she has better things to be worrying about than him. 

She settled him on the couch after he insisted he didn’t want to go from lying in one bed to immediately lying in another. She fussed over him the way he imagined she fussed over Lindsay when she was sick, bringing blankets, TV and DVD remotes, bottles of water and pain pills, a stack of novels. When she’d done all the fussing she could manage, she headed into the kitchen, muttering something about dinner. 

He watched her, half amused, half aroused. Maybe he was wrong in his psychology but he figured that a woman fussed over a man for one of three reasons– she felt sisterly towards him; she felt filially towards him (please, god, let that not be the case here!) or she felt attracted to him. 

If they’d been reading each other’s signals right, he was willing to bet that Catherine was feeling the same attraction to him that he’d been feeling toward her for the last several years. He thought back to the last time they’d been in a situation like this– one taking care of the other– and fervently hoped it wouldn’t turn out like it had last time. 

***

After the doctor had given her a clean bill of health– a mild concussion, some bruising, nothing serious– Jim drove her home. 

“My car–“ she protested half-heartedly. 

“One of the guys can bring it over,” he replied. “Like I’m going to let you drive with a concussion.”

“It’s mild!” she muttered, shooting him a reproachful look. “I’m fine.”

“Cath, do me a favor and drop the bravado. I just want to see you safely home and not have to worry that you’ll jump out of bed to head to the next crime scene.”

Catherine laid her head back against the headrest and was quiet for the rest of the drive. 

He pulled in to her house to find it quiet and dark. “Lindsay at school?”

“Lindsay’s at Disneyland with my mother and Sam for a few days– spring break. They figured if I couldn’t take her, somebody should.” She had her seat belt unbuckled and her car door open before he had a chance to even put on the parking brake. 

He trailed her up to the house and watched her unlock the door and disarm the alarm system—a single mom’s attempt to keep her daughter safe. Her shoulders were slumped, her normally ramrod straight posture starting to fall into the limpness that came with exhaustion. 

She kicked off her shoes, sat on the couch, and laid her head back with a sigh. He sat next to her, conscious of how much he wanted to touch her cheek again. “You need anything?” he asked after a long moment. 

“One of those Vicodin might not be the worst things in the world,” she admitted, without opening her eyes. “They’re in my purse. Do you mind?”

Normally digging through a woman’s purse was the last thing Jim wanted to do—felt too much like an invasion of privacy—but he was actually eager to see what was in Catherine’s. He carefully pulled out each item and set it on the coffee table. A shiny black faux snake-skin wallet. A cosmetics bag in a bold paisley print. A leather holder with her crime lab credentials and business cards. A paperback book—one of the newest Southern vampire novels, he was surprised to note. Cell phone. Keys. He blinked when he pulled out a taser, carefully concealed in a holster. Her gun, also in a holster. And finally the bottle of Vicodin, filled at the hospital. He got her a bottle of water to wash down the pill and put everything back in her purse. 

“You carry a taser AND a gun?” he asked. 

“Can’t be too careful,” she replied, setting the bottle down. “Thanks, Jim.” She rolled her neck, pressing at the base of her skull with her fingers. “Maybe I don’t have as hard a head as I thought,” she muttered, almost to herself.

Jim laughed. “I think you have a much harder head than you think. You’re just not used to having it smashed on the ground. Now me, I’ve taken my share of headers—hockey in college, intermural football, police academy.”

“I didn’t know you played hockey,” Catherine said, still rubbing her neck. 

“Decades ago. Ancient history.” He brought his hand up to the back of her neck. “Here. It’s better if you have someone else do it.” 

She resisted for a moment—just a moment—then gave over to it, going pliant under his hands when he began to knead the muscles in her neck and shoulders. 

“You should put heat on this later,” he said, his voice thick and nearly unrecognizable. Finally having his hands on her made him feel like a teenager at Prom Night—emotionally excited and physically aroused. 

“Mmmhmm.” Catherine was almost completely limp. He ran both thumbs up her neck to the base of her skull, pressing gently to coax the tendons and cords to relax. Keeping his thumbs where they were, he spread his fingers along her throat, using the lightest of touches to caress her throat and then stroke lightly up the line of her jaw and back toward the base of her skull. 

“God, Jim,” Catherine sighed. “You’ve got amazing hands.”

That’s not all I’ve got that’s amazing, was his first tongue-in-cheek, slightly frat boyish response, but he clamped down on it and kept his hands moving up and down her neck. 

“I don’t have the hot body most women are looking for so I learned to make myself attractive in other ways.” He slid his palms to her shoulders. 

“You’re very handsome,” Catherine protested, tensing a little as he kneaded at a knot. 

Jim snorted. “Riight. Thanks for the confidence boost, Cath, but it isn’t necessary.” He moved down to her back and was startled to hear her hiss with pain as she jerked away. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

Catherine sat up, reaching to tenderly probe at her back. “I’m getting bruised, I think. Can you check?” She lifted her shirt enough that he could easily see the livid blue and purple patches rising on her back. 

“Oh yeah,” Jim confirmed. “Those and all that tension you’re carrying is going to make it hard for you to sleep.” He reached into his pocket for his keys. “I’ve got something that might help. Don’t go away.”

He came back inside with the small jar of Tiger Balm that he kept in his gym bag. He didn’t know if it worked on bruising, but it might at least help ease the aching that was sure to follow from such a violent fall. 

He couldn’t keep from replaying it in his mind—Delhomme launching himself at Catherine, she twisting away, the chair wavering, then falling, the back of her head hitting the floor. Delhomme straddling her as he grabbed her throat, Catherine bucking hard, trying to kick him off of her, her body so fragile under the larger man’s. Christ, he wanted to give Delhomme a fist to the nose, a gun butt to the jaw, a taser to the balls …

“This should help,” he said, sitting down behind her. “Analgesic pain reliever. You, uh, might not want to leave your shirt on when you use it, though. It stains clothes.”

Catherine shot him a look then said, almost shyly, “Do you, uh, want to help me put it on?”

Was the Pope Catholic? Did bears crap in the woods? Was Jimmy Hoffa somewhere in the East River with concrete shoes on his feet? Help the most gorgeous woman in CSI rub Tiger Balm on her bare back? Hell, yes, he was THERE. 

“Sure.” He managed to keep his voice steady, thank God. “Why don’t you lie down on your bed?”

Her bed was enormous, as he’d known it would be, and full of pillows. The comforter was silkily soft and he was positive the sheets were, too. He could imagine her sliding naked between those sheets, stretching luxuriously, crooking her fingers in a ‘come hither’ gesture before patting the bed beside her … 

He jerked his imagination sternly back to the present. 

“Just, um, lie on your stomach. Shirt off.” He kicked his shoes off, loosened his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, put his watch in his pocket. He didn’t want anything other than his hands touching her bare skin.

The bruising was bad. He could actually see outlines where the rungs of the chair had pressed into her back as Delhomme held her down. He whistled softly. “Geez, Cath. I hope you can sleep on your stomach.”

“That bad?” she asked anxiously. 

“This should help,” he assured her. He climbed up on the bed behind her. “You know I’m going to have to straddle your hips, right?”

Catherine looked over her shoulder at him, amused. “I HAVE had back massages before, Jim.”

“Yeah but …” He stopped. If she didn’t think it was weird, him straddling her perfect ass, knees on either side of those grab-able, fuck-able hips, then by God he wasn’t going to make it weird by mentioning it. “Just relax.”

He opened the jar and dabbed a bit on his hands. 

“Smells good,” Catherine murmured. “What’s in it?” 

“Camphor and menthol. It’ll heat up as I rub it into your back, help your muscles relax.”

The first strokes of his hands had her making a sound somewhere between a moan of pain and a groan of pleasure. The sound of it shot through him and made his stomach wrench with desire.   
This was either the best idea he’d ever had or the worst. He had no idea how he was going to be able to keep up his friendly first aid when he was overcome with the desire to flip her over and fuck her senseless.

And never mind those half-pleasure, half-pain noises … her body was turning him on even more than he’d anticipated. Her skin was spectacular. It was soft, porcelain pale, and unblemished except for a small beauty mark at the small of her back. And the long line of her back was fantastic, the way it melded into the curves of her hips, the way it dipped before rising into the curve of a saucy ass that was driving him solidly toward distraction the longer he felt it.

Catherine hummed contentedly, relaxing under him as he ran his hands up and down the smooth expanse of her back. “That feels so good,” she murmured, her voice husky. “Don’t stop.”

He’d sooner face a firing squad than stop. He let his hands slide to the small of her back, then move gently along her sides and slightly under her, just enough to let him feel the taut plane of her belly. She sighed, arched her back, settled into his touch. He let his hands quest a little further, moving up toward her rib cage, learning the sweet silk of her skin. 

“No one’s been so gentle with me in a long time,” Catherine murmured drowsily. “You’re treating me like I might break.”

“I know you won’t,” he said, his voice unsteady. “But you deserve a little bit of tenderness.”

She moved as if to sit up and he climbed off of her, missing the warmth of her under him. With a fluidity born of a lifetime of dancing or even just a lifetime of being a beautiful woman who moved like she looked, she rocked backward until she was resting on her knees, offering him an even better view of the amazing line of her back. 

To say that what she did next managed to shock the hell out of him was an understatement. She reached back for his hands, took them, and placed them one on each hip. 

“Cath?” he murmured, not even daring to hope that she was suggesting what he thought she was. 

“I like your hands on me, Jim,” she murmured. “Keep touching me.”

“I—” Man, oh man, maybe dreams did come true. “Cath, I don’t think you’re thinking straight.”

“I’m thinking--” She took his left hand, moved it till it was resting on her left breast. “That I need--” She did the same thing with his right hand. “A little tenderness.” She slid both his hands down that glorious expanse of torso and onto her hips. “Just like you said.” She squeezed his fingers gently. “And I want you to give it to me.”

This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t be. It was a dream, a hallucination, a REALLY real fantasy. But Catherine, begging him to put his clumsy hands on her body? No way. 

Vicodin. The word swam up into his brain. Of course. She had to be feeling incredibly mellow and even kind of loopy right now. No wonder. 

But even though his mind was trying to think rationally about why this gorgeous, half-naked woman wanted his hands on her, his body wasn’t doing anything rational. He could feel himself hardening and he shifted so that she wouldn’t be able to feel it if she pressed back against him. He didn’t want to embarrass himself or her. 

“Cath.” He moved his hands so they were resting on her waist. “Sweetheart. This isn’t you. As much as I want it to be, I know it isn’t.” He laid his lips on the back of her neck, kissed her gently. “I’m not who you want.” 

He pushed at her gently until she was lying down on her stomach again and she went obediently, all of the sudden lusty energy draining out of her body. “But believe me, I’d consider myself to be the luckiest man on Earth if I was.” 

He laid his hand on the small of her back and rubbed in slow circles. “Relax and get some rest, okay. I’ll have one of the guys bring your car over. Call me when you wake up and let me know how you feel.”

“Jim,” she murmured. 

He knelt beside her, close enough that if he leaned in just a bit, he could press a kiss to her lips. “Yeah.”

“Turn on the alarm when you leave,” she replied groggily. “9101, enable.”

Swallowing his disappointment, he leaned in and brushed his lips across her cheek. “You got it. Sleep well.”

***

She’d never mentioned it. Neither had he. He wasn’t sure if she’d forgotten or if she was too embarrassed to say anything, but either way he was happy to keep silent. It was painful to think about and he sincerely hoped there wasn’t about to be a repeat of that day two years ago. But if he was right, if she was feeling what he was feeling, this was the chance he’d been hoping for every day since. 

“Cath,” he said, turning to see what she was doing. She was searching through the fridge, looking for something to cook. “Don’t bother, there’s nothing in there. Haven’t gone to the store in weeks.”

“You need to eat, Jim. You’ve lost weight.”

“Yeah, well, I could stand to lose a few pounds.” He patted the sofa next to him. “We’ll call out for Chinese. Come sit over here with me, okay?”

Catherine shut the fridge, nodded, and sank down onto the couch next to him. 

“How long has it been since you’ve had any rest?”

She shot him a look. “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

“You look beautiful. But I can tell you haven’t been sleeping.”

“How can you tell?” Then, thinking over his statement, she blushed and said, “And thank you.”

“Your eyes look tired.” When she raised a hand to touch the skin underneath her eyes, he chuckled. “Not that way. I can just-- ” he shrugged, “—see it.”

“Oh.” Catherine looked surprised at that. “I’ve been going to bed. Just haven’t been getting a lot of rest. Insomnia, I guess.” 

“That a common problem for you?” he asked, pretty sure that it wasn’t. 

“When my friends are in the hospital it is,” she replied pertly. 

“I’m not in the hospital now,” he pointed out. “Think you’ll be able to sleep tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Catherine said, giving him a considering look and a sly smile. “Are you planning on doing anything to land yourself back there? Chasing bad guys? Walking back into a hotel room with a gun wielding maniac? If you are, I may as well forget about sleeping again.”

Jim laughed. “I plan on being much more careful.” He touched her arm. “Now that you’ve got me safely home, you going back to the lab?”

She shook her head. “Told Gil I was taking the day just in case you needed me.”

He bit back his first response—“You don’t know how much I need you”—and went with the more circumspect, “I don’t make it a habit to need anyone. But if I had to, I wouldn’t mind you being the person I needed to have around.”

Catherine blushed and played with the corner of the cushion. Jim reached out, slid his fingers under her chin, tipped her face up till she was looking at him. 

“Catherine,” he murmured, “I’m glad you’re here.”

She smiled, met his gaze. “I am, too.”

It took only a fraction of a second for him to decide and then another fraction of a second to do it—he pulled her toward him (and felt her come willingly, thank God) and kissed her lightly.

She didn’t hesitate, not even for a moment. Her mouth opened under his and her hands rose to rest against his chest. 

Her mouth was as warm and full and soft as he’d always imagined it would be. Oh, she’d kissed him before—chaste kisses on the forehead, the cheek, and once, back in the hospital when he was barely conscious, on his mouth. But this, a sweet, full kiss with intention and meaning—it nearly rocked him to his core. 

She was good at it, damn good-- gentle but insistent, her tongue dancing against his. Her fingers scrabbled against his chest, looking for purchase until they slid along the plane of his shoulders and tightened on the hard muscles in his back. A surge of heat and lust flashed through him, clutching at his heart, his stomach, his groin. Everything he’d ever known about how to kiss a woman disappeared in the face of that first ecstatic kiss from Catherine Willows. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she groaned, breaking the kiss. She was breathing hard, a fact that Jim noted with no small amount of satisfaction. 

“Why not?” He reached to stroke her hair away from her face. She pressed her cheek against his palm. Her skin was searing. 

“Because your doctor forbid any kind of strenuous activity,” she replied boldly, tossing her hair. Her eyes danced.

“Am I going to have to work that hard to please you?” Jim asked, grinning. 

“Oh, I’m easy to please,” Catherine asserted. “You’re going to have to work that hard to keep up with me.” 

Dear sweet holy Lord. Jim grinned, the smile on his face like that of a man who had not only won the jackpot at the Wynn but had also received his own harem of dancing showgirls and an unlimited tab at the bar. 

“He did say I needed some physical therapy,” he replied, trying to keep a straight face. 

“Let me TELL you about physical therapy, Captain Brass,” Catherine said, leaning forward to bring her mouth to his again. “Or better yet …” She started to unbutton her blouse and Jim caught her hand in his. 

“You….” He kissed her fingers. “Can…” Her palm. “Just …” The inside of her wrist. “Show me.”   
He nipped gently at her wrist, the race of her pulse fluttering under his lips. “We have time.”

END.


End file.
